Twenty-One
by element90
Summary: On a park bench...


The hammering from the construction site is pushing her to the breaking point.

Why is it necessary to build and build? Can there be a plot of land untouched? Just let it be green. Just fucking let it thrive for once.

The park is small, about midway between hers and his. As good a place as any to meet.

She glances over her shoulder, ready to deliver her best glare at the workers. But no one is there. The place is void of human or machine. There's a busted metal fence and a twisted dead tree. Scraps of paper next to a dented trash can.

God, she must be losing it.

Sitting on a rickety bench under the sun's dull haze, sunglasses and loose ponytail. Dark jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. Posing death threats against imaginary construction workers.

Waiting for a man she hasn't seen in years. After an alcohol-encouraged text message.

_Are you alive anymore?_

As soon as her finger hit the button, she made arrangements with a higher power if only it wouldn't send.

But it did.

Maybe he wouldn't read it. Ignore it like previous texts and messages and calls from years ago.

But he did. And a night later, he sent his own.

_Sometimes._

She had laughed, bitter and short, understanding that sentiment too well.

He still beat himself up about shooting the girl? Probably a new reason. Feel as if he failed one of his children? Or something.

She never replied and days dragged on like they always had. She accomplished some work-related objectives, was unsuccessful at others. Went home, kissed her boyfriend if he was there. Pretended the nightmares were getting better. Got up, showered, did it all again.

Then a chime sounded by her bedside as she sat propped up by pillows, alone, and stared at the ceiling counting sheep, psycho serial rapists, whatever.

_If you need me, let me know._

If?

She cried then, like she had in the private moment after hearing he wouldn't return.

One hundred hours and some change passed. And she asked him to meet her.

She yawns a few times, the sun working her over. She drifts.

When the weight of a body settles next to her, she nearly jumps out of her skin.

"It's just me."

She feels ridiculous but she must not appear that way; there's no laughter in his voice. It's soft but firm enough to steady her.

In her peripheral she sees his eyes are also covered by dark shades. He wears faded jeans, a fresh white short-sleeve shirt. His skin is sun-kissed. Light spray of stubble upon his face.

He looks good.

She's always thought him attractive. But working closely with him, forging a partnership, made her lose sight of that over time.

Now, having not seen him, she sees him. The strong line of his jaw flexing, muscles in his arms shifting under tan skin as he sits with hands between his knees, fingers contracting and releasing.

He's nervous.

It almost makes her smile.

"I'm glad you…" he trails off, straightening his spine, chewing on his thoughts.

Texted? Picked neutral ground? Wore sunglasses? Survived? She waits for him to continue, impatience gathering.

"…Asked me here."

Ah, she didn't think of that one. But really it makes the most sense.

When did this headache start? She rubs her temple. He glances her way. She clears her throat.

"I'm, uh… glad you came."

But she sounds a little distracted and irritated. Probably by the hammering she swears she can hear. She takes a second look over her shoulder. Still nothing there.

He catches this and looks too. She sighs, shaking her head.

"You okay?"

Pulling at her sleeve for no particular reason, she lies, "Yeah."

He disregards. "Want to talk about it?"

She coughs into a fist, chest feeling heavy, like coming down with something.

"It?" she asks, confused.

It is rather loaded. It could be a number of things. The way he never explained anything to her. How she felt lonely in company. Her loving, stressful relationship with a man who tries very hard. Each excruciating moment she spent with the devil. How she's never hurt quite like that.

Or how apparently she's going out of her damn mind thinking a crew is building something behind her.

"Whatever you choose," he says, as if she'd read the list aloud.

She stuffs her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt, though it's too warm inside them. "No, no I think I talk about it enough with my therapist."

He exhales. "Well, if we're not here to talk…"

Ah, she didn't think about that either.

He nearly sounds bored. Or like his time is being wasted. It is Sunday afternoon after all. Should be playing ball with his son after a home-cooked meal. After a nice sermon. Neat little family at his side.

So she's jealous? Upset he has these things? The emotions sting like the prick from a needle.

"Olivia?"

He's just inches away from her. His face so close she can smell his toothpaste, mouthwash or something.

God, he looks good. She doesn't even try to stop thinking about it. Shrugs off the inappropriateness, the guilt for looking at another woman's husband like this. How wrong it feels to look at _him_ like this.

Just once in her life, though, it might be nice to lose control. No one would have to know. He could blame it all on her.

Yeah, she's losing it.

He looks down at his watch.

"Late for something?" she asks, trying not to sound like a bitch.

"No," he replies, casually. "Just wondering how long before you leave."

"That's what I do?" she gives back quickly.

He leans against the splintered wooden slats, moving his leg to let the ankle rest at the knee, arm farthest from her slung across the top of the bench. "You have before."

Her breath quickens, out of anger. And desire.

"You haven't?"

He nods, honest and unmoved by her reminder. "We both suck at this. Alright?"

She shakes her head, looks away, bites her tongue.

Removing the shades, he commands softly, "Look at me."

Her head turns his direction; he gestures to her own pair of sunglasses. "Take 'em off."

But she can't. It's her last line of defense.

But she does. 'Jump' and 'how high'.

Whatever he sees in her eyes causes a frown to appear, brow to furrow. She wants to look away, feeling too insect-under-microscope.

The intensity of his gaze holds her still, silent.

After several seconds, hell maybe minutes, he moistens his lips and speaks. "I want you to know something."

Her chest feels tight again. Head pounds. Allergies? Fucking flu, with her luck.

"I'm sorry, for what happened to you…"

The fact that his voice wavers doesn't go unnoticed.

He swallows, like trying to send any details straight to his stomach to let the acid dissolve them.

"Whether or not I was there…"

She feels an urgent need to pull at her sleeve again, for some screwed up reason.

He exhales quietly, breaks visual contact. "It was your call."

A coward's way out. Or he's that stupid. She can't decide.

"Are you serious?"

He doesn't look at her, speak. Nothing.

"Since when do you need an invitation?" she asks, disbelief overcoming any more negative feelings at the moment.

"It's been a long time," he says quietly.

She reminds him, "We were together much longer."

His forehead creases, eyes look upon his lap. Lips move as if he's mumbling to himself. She can't tell.

Standing up, she looks at the little tree, litter on the ground.

She feels his eyes immediately upon her face, out of the corner of her vision, sees them slowly move down to somewhere in the vicinity of her collarbone. But it feels like he's not seeing her, rather staring past or right through.

He blinks, looks at his watch. "Twenty-one…"

His voice is sad, lost. She steps away from the bench, fighting down the urge to offer comfort. And to break that damn watch.

Slipping on her shades, she says in the most even tone she can fake, "I wanted you there, Elliot."

She doesn't wait to see or hear any response, if he had one at all.

As she leaves the small park, the hammering fills her head.


End file.
